


The Ramblings of a Procrastinating Tumblr Addict Or A Tumblr Ficlet Anthology

by Zigster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Inception (2010), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Arthur at Hogwarts, Astronomy Tower, Bespoke Suits, CEO!John Watson, Coffeeshop AU, Dream Visits, Eames is French now!, Hogwarts, I fell down an Inception tunnel, I'm not sorry about this, If You Squint - Freeform, London, M/M, Mirror of Erised, OWP - ogling without plot, Pining Arthur, Potterlock, Power Dynamics, ProfessorPotterLock, Professorlock, Sexual Tension, Suit Kink, Voyeurism, Werewolves, balletlock, bonus: brooklyn heat summer jazz deleted scene!, good use of floor to ceiling glass windows, i went there, ish?, magical frottage? if that's a thing, oh yeah, phonebooth kisses, power plays in an office setting, that leads to fighting, the best kind, tumblr ficlets, using a ficlet as an excuse to put these two in nice suits and have them paw at each other, wanking, which clearly means something else to me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-05-14 01:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14759873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: A collection of the little cheeky stories I end up writing on Tumblr when I'm too arsed to write what I should be writing. So far there's only three, but I'm assuming there will be more. It's nice to step out of a chaptered story every once in a while and write down something quick and fun.Enjoy!Chapter/Fandom list:Chapter 1: Johnlock - CEO John WatsonChapter 2: Potterlock - Sherlock and John are rival Hogwarts professorsChapter 3: BHSJ deleted sceneChapter 4: JohnlockChapter 5: Inception - Arthur x EamesChapter 6: Inception in Harry Potter-verse - Arthur x Eames





	1. After Hours

This was originally posted in two parts on Tumblr thanks John and Sherlock walking around in suits looking like power-couple husbands as seen in [this gif](https://holmezyan.tumblr.com/post/173687646859/zigster-ao3-violetwylde-221bloodnun). 

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If a bit of a power play kink isn't your thing, skip this one. Just saying. 

Also, the reason for the Explicit rating is for this first chapter. Again, just saying. You've been warned. 

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_After Hours_  

. . . 

The soft glow of the lamp in the corner echoed throughout the velvet-dark of the office yet the chasm of the onyx wooden floors absorbed any light that touched it, Sherlock observed. The idea thrilled him. The darker the room the fewer inhibitions one possessed.  

He stepped softly onto the carpet behind the teak desk.

He waited.

“Put your hands on the glass.”

The voice came from his far right, the opposite of the door. How had John entered without Sherlock hearing? Surely the floorboards, thick and solid as they were, would have allowed for the sound of footsteps to carry to his ears. The fact that it hadn’t upset Sherlock, jarring him into being foolish and asking, “what?”

“Do it.”

Sherlock turned, and with a measured breath placed his hands, long fingers splayed wide, on the darkened glass overlooking the Thames. He starred out at the city lights flickering beneath him and the iconic silhouette of the London Eye beyond, his breath misting against the smooth, cool surface.

“Spread your legs, Sherlock.”

He did as he was told, this time without further question.

“Good.” A warm hand clasped the back of Sherlock’s neck at the single word of approval. John’s grip was gentle yet hinting at the underlying danger of restrained strength Sherlock knew John struggled hard to keep at bay.  

Sherlock let his head fall to the cool glass and closed his eyes. The fingers on his neck squeezed with just the right amount of delicious pressure. He swallowed when they trailed up into his hairline, carding through his curls and finding purchase at the crown. John pulled hard and Sherlock hissed.

“What’ll be tonight, Sherlock?”

He swallowed hard, unable to speak. Another tug. Another hiss. The corner of Sherlock’s eyes stung.

“Answer me.”

“Whatever you want, John.”

A hot mouth ghosted over the straining tendon pulsing wild and erratic along Sherlock’s neck.

“Do you know what I want, Sherlock?”

Another tug.   

“Yes,” his voice trailed off on the ‘s’ the sound misting itself onto the glass in front of him.

“Tell me.”

“You want me to swallow you whole.”

The hand in Sherlock’s hair loosened and caressed through the dark strands of soft curls, trailing down towards the nape of his neck.

“What else?”

“You want me to beg for it.”

John’s head fell against Sherlock’s shoulder, his eyes closed. “Fuck.”

“You want that too,”

John’s hand immediately fisted into Sherlock’s hair, pulling his head back and exposing his neck to the London beyond the darkened glass.

“No, Sherlock. That’s what  _you_  want.”

“Yes.”

“We’re talking about what I want right now.”

John bit hard on Sherlock’s earlobe and his entire body shivered at the feel of John’s teeth sinking into such delicate skin.

“Please,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes wet, his body arched and willing.

“Sit on the floor.”

There was no elegance to his actions as Sherlock folded himself down against the glass, turning to face John on the soft, Turkish carpet. He looked up at the silhouette of the man before him, his silver hair illuminated in the soft glow of the dim light. Sherlock took a deep breath, forcing his heart rate to slow. He waited.  

“Unzip me.”

Sherlock did as he was told with deft fingers, surprised that they did not shake. John was not wearing pants beneath his bespoke trousers this evening. The sight of their absence made Sherlock lick his lips in anticipation. John had planned this. 

“Pull it out, Sherlock. Give it a taste.”

His chest was heaving at the command John was wielding over him in the sense that this man, this powerful, beautiful, military man was telling Sherlock to taste him. It beyond comprehension. Sherlock did not understand and for once in his adult life, he didn’t care to analyze why. Instead, he wrapped his long fingers around John’s cock and guided it to his mouth, eager and hungry. He licked and sucked and pulled, relishing at the feel of the soft skin against his overheated tongue. John hummed in approval above him, his hand once again carding gently through his curls.

“Take it all, Sherlock. Swallow me.”

Sherlock did, his lips meeting with the coarse curls at John’s pelvis as his throat constricted around the head of his cock. He sucked hard as he pulled back for a gulp of much-needed air, not wanting John to feel anything but pleasure while Sherlock worked him.

“God,” John gasped, his left hand punching the glass far above Sherlock’s head. “Your mouth.”

Sherlock moaned at the praise, his eyes closing as John gently pulled at his hair. He wanted to touch himself, to touch John, run his hands up and down his thighs, his buttocks, his lower back. Scratch his nails into his bare skin and mark him for all he was worth, but John had only said to swallow him whole, and so Sherlock gulped him down, his erect cock ignored and his hands limp at his sides.

“You want to touch yourself, don’t you?”

A whimper escaped his wet mouth as John correctly guessed his thoughts. He desperately wanted relief but he wanted John to be the one who gave it to him.

“How do you want to come, Sherlock?”

It was a trick of a question. Sherlock kept sucking.

“You can stop for now,” John said, his voice soft with a gentle smile. Sherlock had been right.

“I want you, John.”

“How do you want me?”

“Inside me.”

John’s eyes closed, his mask slipping. “Christ, the way you look right now.”

Sherlock grinned, his wet lips pulling into a satisfied smile. “How do I look?”

“Perfect.”

John fell to one knee and kissed Sherlock, hard, his tongue pushing into Sherlock’s mouth and tasting himself on Sherlock’s tongue.

“Lie down.”

Sherlock did, lengthening his long body against the cool glass of the window and the soft carpet beneath him. John shucked his trousers, the clang of his belt buckle loud against the hardwood floors. He hoisted a knee over Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock shifted to make room, his eyes widening at the implication of such a position.

“That’s right, Sherlock. I’m going to suck your cock while you swallow mine.”

Sherlock closed his eyes at the sound of John’s voice so bold and brazen in the darkness of the room, his words cutting into him and leaving brands behind. His hands came up to hold onto the warm, firm muscle of John’s thighs straddling his head, massaging the skin with eager fingers.

The sound of his zip met his ears and he looked down through the V of John’s legs and the pooling of his silk tie along Sherlock’s torso to the sight of the man above him pulling his painfully erect cock out of his dampened pants.

“So hard, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, despite John not being able to see. Words, at this blessedly beautiful moment, failed him.

“Want me to make you come?”

Sherlock’s head fell back with a hard thud on the carpet. His breath punched out of him in a wave. “God, yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please, John.”

“Alright.”

Delicious, wet heat met Sherlock’s searing skin, engulfing him with intense, moist suction. Sherlock cried out, his hips bucking restlessly against the beautiful relief John gave him. God, he was in love with this man. The thought made his eyes water and a moan growl out from his throat.

The glorious relief did not last, leaving him almost as soon as it had come, and Sherlock gasped and bucked towards a mouth that was no longer there, pained at its absence.

“Suck me, Sherlock.” A hand smacked his thigh, hard and insistent. Sherlock hiccuped a breath and squeezed John’s thighs, remembering how this all started. He looked up at the dripping cock before him and lifted his neck towards his goal, the spark of competition igniting inside him. He knew exactly how to make John come, and he was going to do it before finishing himself.  

John’s body arched at the sensation of Sherlock’s swirling tongue, his elbows giving out on him and landing him in a huff on Sherlock’s pelvis. Sherlock felt his soft, stubbled cheek nuzzle against his the sensitive skin of his upper thighs, wishing he could see the affectionate gesture first hand.

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes.”

John’s mouth swallowed around Sherlock, his hand working in tandem beneath his skilled lips. Sherlock squirmed under the attention, his balls already tight, his mind reeling with the vision of John sucking him down that perfect throat.

The two of them worked each other to the breaking point, mouths desperate, hands needy and tongues demanding. The minutes spun out in an endless moment of pure, unabashed gratification until John lifted his mouth from Sherlock’s prick with a cry of release, his eyes closed, his head thrown back and hair a mess of silver tangles across his forehead.

Sherlock moaned around his cock, wishing to see the man in this unguarded moment. Instead, he settled for drinking him until his hips twitched the signal of oversensitivity, and Sherlock reluctantly let him go. He pouted, already missing the fevered velvet skin between his lips.

John’s knee swung over Sherlock’s shoulder, his entire body moving away from Sherlock in a dark wave. Sherlock fought the urge to sit up and follow him, lamenting the loss of his weight holding him down.

“You were brilliant, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s head fell to the side, his curls shading his forehead. He smiled at the compliment, unable to hold back the blush he felt at the praise.

“Touch yourself.”

Sherlock whimpered and John tsked at him, sitting back on his knees, his softened cock resting proudly in the juncture of his legs.  

“Do it, Sherlock.”

With a moan Sherlock gripped himself, hard and painful, the tendons of his neck straining. John leaned over his hips, his eyes watching Sherlock’s the entire time as he let spit dribble from his mouth, a long trail of white foam dangling from his tongue to the tip of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock bucked upward towards that mouth, but John retreated as soon as Sherlock moved. He was denying him.

“Coat yourself with my spit.”

Sherlock did.

“Let me watch you, Sherlock. Make yourself come.”

“Christ,” he breathed out through clenched teeth as he gripped himself in his saliva-slicked fingers. He pictured that the hand stroking him was John’s, that the tight fist of a tunnel his fingers had created belonged to John, and that Sherlock was fucking into him with all the desperation the man had instilled in him since the moment they’d met five months prior in a morgue. Sherlock moaned and hissed and spat curses into the air, his body rocketing itself to its highest natural state.

“That’s it,” John whispered. “So beautiful.”

Sherlock locked eyes with John, his fantasy blinking away in a haze of lust-filled abandon. He wanted John more than anything, and he wanted him any way he could have him, even if only his penetrating gaze.

“Please,” he begged, knowing it was what spurred John into action.

“Please, what?”

“Make me come, John.”

John smiled and leaned forward to card his hands through Sherlock’s hair, his eyes warm and kind.

“Make yourself come, Sherlock. Let me see you come for me.”

The words were whispered above Sherlock’s aching lips, brushing ever so gently across his mouth with teasing precision. Sherlock arched and cried into the hot breath of John’s mouth, his release bursting forth from him in a shock of blinding white heat. He canted his hips and rolled his body towards John, his mouth unable to form words, only sounds in the rushing climax that ripped through him like a hurricane across tropical seas.

“Oh god,” he was mumbling, over and over as John pressed gentle kisses into his temples, cheeks, eyelids, and mouth, laying praise across his skin as if the golden light of Sherlock’s orgasm could be consumed with his lips.

“So beautiful, so perfect. Yes, Sherlock, yes. So perfect.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wet and his hand ached. He let go of his spent cock, ignoring the mess he’d made of his trousers and curled into the embrace of John’s body.

“We need to start doing this near a bed.”

John huffed out a laugh and it tickled Sherlock’s curls. “Yes, a bed and a bedside table filled with naughty things.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow raised with interest. “What kind of things?”

“Come back to mine and find out.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted the moment John had spoken. It was as if the world itself had come to a grinding halt as soon as those seven simple words were uttered out into the dark room. The two of them stared at each other, both knowing the bridge they were about to cross if Sherlock accepted. For the past five months, they’d only met here, in John’s office, after hours and with no other stipulations expected of each other, other than mutually getting off and having a bloody fantastic time in the process. 

This, however – this invitation to John’s home was new territory in their odd, unspoken, and somewhat twisted relationship and Sherlock didn’t necessarily know how to proceed through such uncharted waters. Despite all that, what he knew for certain was his answer to John’s request.

“I’ll pay for the cab.”

“Brilliant. I’ll get our coats.”

. . . 

 

_fin!_

 


	2. The Case of the Insulting Transfigured Mobiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Professorlock and Potterlock ficlet created thanks to this prompt: 
> 
> Professors Holmes and Watson are academic rivals at a prestigious university. Their heated arguments smolder with an undercurrent of mutual attraction, their war of wits soon turning into something more personal.

[Tumblr Post and Prompt](https://221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor.tumblr.com/post/174257698578/zigster-ao3-zigster-ao3) thanks to @221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor 

I totally bastardized this prompt, and I'm still fervently hoping that someone actually writes a legit AU using it because it's AN AMAZING idea and my silly little Hogwarts romp does not do it justice.

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_The Case of the Insulting Transfigured Mobiles_

. . .

 

Professor Watson removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose for the twelfth time that afternoon. The scent of summer was heavy and full in the air, drifting in through the open tower windows on a warm breeze with the promise of sunshine and lazy days ahead. Absolutely none of his students were paying one lick of attention to anything he was saying because of it, and it was driving him rather mad. 

“Excuse me,” he called. None of his students even bothered to look up. Two of them were actually snogging in the back of the class, their legs tangled beneath the workbench. 

John Watson had had enough. He pointed his wand at his throat and exclaimed, “Excuse me!” 

The words bellowed throughout the classroom, seemingly pushing every breeze of tantalizing summer wind back out through the windows. They all closed shut with a resounding snap at his outburst and every student turned their heads towards the front of the class, their attention once again focused on their haggard professor. 

“Thank you. Now, as I was saying, mobile phones are probably commonplace for most of you, but for the few of you who grew up solely in the Wizarding World, the idea can take a bit of time to get used to, so if you please?” He gestured for his students to pick up their transfigured mobiles and they begrudgingly followed suit. 

Instantly, they all went off, buzzing and ringing and pinging to life in the young wizards and witches hands, illuminating their shocked faces with eerie blue light. 

“It’s insulting me.” 

“Me too!” 

“What the–?”

“This one just has a picture my trunk in my room … oh!” The boy who’d started speaking turned an alarming shade of pink and shoved his mobile into his robes, looking around him to make sure that whatever was shown on the screen hadn’t become privy to anyone else. Judging by his partner’s scandalised face at their workbench, he hadn’t succeeded. 

“Ha! Mine says to get a room! You up for it, Alistair?” The girl from the back who’d been snogging earlier asked. 

“That’s enough!” Professor Watson boomed again. “Put them face down.” 

“You just told us to pick them up?”

“Yes, well, now I’m telling you to put. Them. Down.” 

He leaned forward on the desk, the vein in his forehead throbbing. This was the third (and final!) time his lesson on mobiles was conveniently interrupted by an insult hex placed on the transfigured phones, despite him having cleared all of their magical signatures prior to class. Professor Watson was officially one hundred percent done with this childish behavior. 

He picked up one of the tampered phones and examined it, lips pursing at the seemingly innocuous object. Mind made up, he instructed to his students, “take out your workbooks and read chapters 23-25. I’ll be back,” and then promptly strode out of the classroom, buttoning his bespoke jacket as he went. He was Muggle-born, lived in a Muggle town on the coast, and taught Muggle studies; he would never give up his tailored Muggle clothing for those billowing robes the other professors preferred, no matter how much Minerva had implored him to when she offered him the position back in the fall. 

“Can we open up the windows aga–” 

“No!” 

The door slammed behind him, cutting off his students exaggerated sighs. He looked up and down the hallway, taking a moment to breathe in a calming gulp of teenage-hormone-free air and smooth back the hair that had fallen into his eyes. After ten seconds of much needed internal meditation, he turned and headed for the astronomy tower. 

 

. . . 

 

“Yes, Scorpius, that is a perfectly adequate example of–” 

Professor Holmes’ condescending praise was cut off at the sound of the classroom door being magicked open with a blast of blue light. Every student gasped and then clapped at the display. Professor Holmes glowered. 

“I beg your pardon.”

“No, I beg yours. I need a moment of your time,  _Professor._ ” Watson punched the word out with forced candor, taking note of the student’s hungry gazes at the disturbance. 

“I’m in the middle of a lecture.”

“Yes, and I’m sure these kids could all use a break. Fresh air, maybe?” 

The class murmured to life, heads nodding in instant approval of the idea. Holmes rolled his eyes. 

“Fine. Ten minutes.” He conjured a stopwatch in sickly green light, it floated lazily beside his head, its counter running. “If any of you are even a second late upon returning I will take a twenty points from your houses. Each.” 

The students collectively fled, eyes wide with the happy prospect of having a break from the doldrums of one of Professor Holmes’ advanced lectures mixed with the pressure of returning on time. 

“Must you threaten them?”

Holmes raised an eyebrow at Watson, his glowing stopwatch changing from green to yellow at the nine-minute mark. “You asked for a moment. You have eight and a half minutes. What can I do for you, Watson?” 

“Stop insulting my students.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort. I’ve been up here all afternoon. As you can see.”

Watson threw his head back with a laugh. “I recognized the magical signature on that little spell you put on the mobiles, Holmes. Stop it.” 

“You have no proof of my meddling.” 

“I have your signature!” He held up one of the mobiles, his hair falling into his eyes again at the jostling movement. 

Holmes waved a hand and the mobile disappeared. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about.”

Watson glared at his insolence. “Did you just–” he strode forward, shined leather shoes thumping softly on the thick, Turkish carpet beneath him. “Give it back.” 

Holmes stared down his pureblood nose at Watson’s outstretched hand. “No.”

“I said, give it back.” 

“Make me.” 

Holmes saw the warning flash of light that crossed Watson’s eyes before he was being tackled to the floor, silver hair flying into his vision as he collided with a leather pouf behind them. 

“Unhand me!” 

“Shut. Up!” 

The two professors tossed and rolled on the plush carpet, shoving at each other with equal vigor, their frustrations leaking out in the physical exertion of a good fight. Watson twisted with surprising speed and grabbed both of Holmes’ wrists in one agile hand, shoving them up above his head, his legs straddled over his heaving torso. 

“You forget, professor, I was a soldier.” 

“You were a healer.” 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t have the ability to disarm you blindfolded.“

Holmes’ face went from a crease of frustration to a glowing mask of interest. “Really? Care to give it a go?” 

Watson grinned down at him, shoving his hands harder into the rug. “Don’t mess with me, Holmes. Give. It. Back.” 

“No,” Holmes pushed his head up off the ground, the veins of his throat straining at the awkward angle. Watson licked his lips at the sight. The flash of pink tongue did not go unnoticed. Holmes craned his neck further, breathing in the scent of the man above him. It was earthen and feral, the smell of dirt and moss and the deep cedar of the forest beyond the castle; it was telling. “Rather close to the full moon, isn’t it,  _Professor_?” 

Watson flinched in shock, retreating a fraction of an inch, and the moment of distraction was enough. Holmes flipped their positions, pinning Watson’s hands to his sides with his thighs, taut and straining to hold them at bay, squeezing inward until Watson stopped fighting. Holmes placed his large, pale hands on the broad span of the man’s shoulders and grinned down at his prize: John Watson, the source of all his undying frustrations finally restrained beneath him. 

They glared at each other, chests heaving and their hair a matched set of salt and pepper chaos rioting above their heads. 

There was a beat before Watson blinked at Holmes, eyes bulging wide in realisation. “You’re hard.” 

Holmes’ grin turned into a proud crooked smile. “You  _finally_  observe the obvious.” 

Shaking his head, Watson’s brow creased as he allowed himself a single deep inhale, smelling the clear, sea breeze scent of arousal cascading off the man on top of him. The new knowledge caused saliva to pool in his mouth, and he swallowed hard, his hands fisting at his sides. 

“You’re playing with fire, Holmes.” 

“Am I? I was always rather good with fire.” 

“Have you been burned lately?”

Holmes’ eyes closed, his head lolling back on his long, pale neck, exposing the vulnerable skin of his throat. It was all for show and Watson knew it, he bucked up beneath him and growled for good measure. “This is  _dangerous_ ,” he whispered, his voice coiling with uncontrolled heat. 

“Yes,” Holmes hissed, leaning forward.

A delicate cough sounded behind them and they froze just as the alarm sounded above their heads. It rattled loudly over them as purple light showered the room and the not-so-quiet din of Holmes’ twenty students shuffling shoes and collective gasps came rushing to the forefront of their attention. 

“Uh … Professors?”

" _Shit._ " 

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*cackles and runs away* 

 


	3. Brooklyn Heat, Summer Jazz: deleted scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a bit of a fun for y'all who are reading my Balletlock AU in which Martha Hudson's household gets a new resident.

This won't actually happen in the story, but it's a bit of cute silliness and I thought I'd leave it here for y'all to enjoy. 

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_BHSJ: deleted scene_

_. . ._

 

“Sherlock!” 

“Yes?” The man in question poked his curly-haired head out of his bedroom door, the picture of innocence. 

“There is a dog on the piano bench.” 

“Oh, lovely, he came upstairs. John, I’d like to introduce you to John.” Sherlock grinned at the name. He looked manic. 

“Excuse me?” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows creased together in what would have been an endearing fashion had his condescending expression not been aimed at John, who was currently somewhat miffed about the dog drool coating his favorite seat in the house. 

“John,” Sherlock started, voice purposeful and steady. “This is John Gladstone Watson the Sixth. He belongs to Hudders now. Just came from the vet’s this morning. However, we’ve decided for practicality to just refer to him as Gladstone. I was just being cheeky earlier.” 

“Gladstone? My middle name is Hamish, Sherlock.” 

“Well, that’s a terrible name for an animal.” 

“But John Watson seemed fitting to you!”

“You said you were worried about not carrying on the family name. I’ve fixed that.” 

John pinched the bridge of his nose between his first two fingers, throwing his glasses askew. “Not. The same. Thing.” 

“Of course it isn’t, but it does seem rather fitting.”

“What? Naming a bulldog after me?” 

“Yes. You’re very similar.” 

John threw his head back with a laugh, his hair flying in elegant tangles about his face. “Ha!” He then promptly and quickly left the room, lest he punch something. Sherlock called after him, confused that he did not appreciate the thoughtfulness at the dog’s namesake. He looked back at Gladstone, happily sleeping on John’s piano bench and smiled. 

“Good boy.” 

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Aren't dogs the best? :) 


	4. Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was bored last night and asked for prompts on Tumblr, seeing if it would spark the need to write. One of the first prompts sent my way was: "how about a classic where one walks in on the other masturbating?" 
> 
> Rating for this chapter: Mature

 

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_Hard_

_. . ._

 

 

 

 

It's always hard nowadays. 

John smirks at himself, the pun was most certainly not intended but the humor appreciated. Still, it’s hard to find a quiet, peaceful moment to fulfill his needs. He’s a man with appetites, always has been, and as of late he’s been rather hungry, to put it mildly. 

When Sherlock announces one afternoon that he’ll be heading out, and not to wait up, John nods in an absentminded way, pretending to not hear what he’s said. He’s studying his crossword, the picture of innocence. 

John waits and counts. Seventeen footfalls echo through the stairwell, then the glorious sound of the door thudding shut and the gilded knocker rocking on its hinge at the jostling movement. The silence of the empty flat greets John like an old friend and he smiles as he takes a sip of tea, leaning back in his chair and tossing his paper aside. He seems to have been handed the opportune moment for some much-needed self-indulgence on a silver platter, after all. 

He considers going to his bedroom, but a streak of early afternoon light is slicing across his lap, warming him through the layers of cotton and denim and he smiles at the feel of it, wanting to expose himself to such warmth. John rarely has the flat to himself and the idea of being so open in such a shared space enthralls him into action. 

He makes quick work of his flies and shucks his boxers down his hips  _just so._  He’s rather partial to the elastic waistband of his pants cupping the underside of his balls, holding him in place and adding a delicious spike of pressure. 

A sigh hits the air, cutting through the dust-filled silence as John wraps his hand around himself, forming a tight fist and pushing down towards the elastic. He hisses at the sensation, then pulls upward, elaborating on his movements and enjoying each tug and drag as it comes. His hips thrust in shallow jolts off the chair, his head falling backward, lolling on the seat back with pleasure and satisfaction curving at his lips. 

“Yes,” he whispers, twisting his wrist. _It's been too long._ He repeats the motion. He hisses out another _yes_. 

Again. 

_Yes._

Again. 

_Fuck yes._

Again. 

“John.”

The word is spoken like a reverence, a fevered prayer, and John stills the second he hears it, frozen in place. His eyes are sealed shut and his fist is filled with the heat of his own arousal, his mind racing. 

_Sherlock’s here._

He punches out a jagged breath through his teeth and forces himself to stare and confront the impossible: Sherlock Holmes standing before him with a devastated look on his face, the hazy blue of his eyes obliterated by the startling black of his blown-wide pupils. He blinks, silent as the grave and ferocious as the sea in a storm. He's wrecked and John is too startled, too on edge to ask why. 

“John,” he repeats, his chest heaving. John maintains eye contact, hoping beyond hope that if he holds Sherlock’s gaze, he won’t see what’s still hard and needy and wanting clasped between his fingers in his lap. 

A moment passes, heavy and fraught with tension. Sherlock steps closer and a shift occurs in the air around them, swirling with the disturbed dust of the flat. 

“Can I watch?” Sherlock's voice is hesitant, urgent and utterly perfect in its vulnerability. 

John’s hand spasms at the sound of that voice and he closes his eyes, the weight of what he’s about to say laying heavily on his shoulders. He responds with a single word, the only thing he can trust himself to say: _yes._  

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	5. Arthur really hates tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or that time Arthur pined after Eames and drank cup after cup of tea because he was too stupid to say hi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an AU were Arthur is studying abroad in London and Eames is being a devastating menace behind a bar of a cafe. It could be considered coffeeshop AU territory if you squint. It's also incredibly self-indulgent and I used it as an excuse to procrastinate from a myriad of other projects that need completing. 
> 
> Is there such a thing as an 'ogling without plot' tag? An OWP if you will? Because I'm pretty sure this would fit that category to a tee. 
> 
> I regret nothing. 
> 
> Enjoy.

The thing is, Arthur hates tea. He hates it. Despises it, in fact. 

He's not really sure why, but preexisting cultural standards notwithstanding, he's never truly enjoyed the flavor of slightly bitter, steeped, dried leaves. Sure, every Monday and Thursday while growing up, he'd stop by his grandmother's house after school and she'd sit down with him at her dining room table with its pink, slightly sticky plastic tablecloth and a deck of cards and pour him out cup after cup of Rosehip tea with lots of cream and a cube of sugar, just the way she always preferred. He'd sit there on his telephone books and sip dutifully while they played game after game of Canasta until the sun started to set and he had to ride his bike home to make sure he got dinner on the table for his mother. But that was then, when he was small and sweet and loved his grandmother more than anything, and now, she's gone and he's a grown man, living abroad, on his own in every sense of the word, and he really, really, just hates tea. 

This does not stop him from happily accepting a "cuppa" every time he sits down at his (now) local coffee shop around the corner from his rental flat in South London. The reason he does this is two-fold: one, he does not want to be rude considering he already has enough strikes against him being an American in a foreign land filled with legitimately well-educated people, and two, the man who kindly hands him said cup of tea every time he comes into the cafe is devastating. 

Devastating in the kind of way Arthur can't quite describe, but it needles him a little deeper every time he walks through the door. The man seems to grow in Arthur's estimation each time he sees him, progressively becoming more and more impressive each day until he fills the entire space of the cafe with his mere presence and all anyone can do is just cower at his feet in supplication. 

Arthur shakes his head and wants to punch himself. _Get it the fuck together, man_. _He's just a guy!_ But he's not just a guy. He's . . . impossible. A riot of color in a drab world. The first time Arthur had come across the cafe was in a downpour that left his rather well-put-together ensemble drenched and had him feeling like a drowned rat when he came inside, seeking solace from the stinging rain. He looked around him at the room of people wearing practical black Wellies and tweed caps and the standard earth-toned wool jackets everyone seemed to wear in this country and saw nothing but tones of muddy brown swim before him. Then a man stepped out from behind the counter and filled his vision with warmth. Red, Arthur remembers, a cacophony of red and burgundy and gold and green stripes were all he could see until he looked up and took in the smile of the man who wore such a god-awful shirt and Arthur's knees went slightly weak. A mouth like that should not be legal, and the man's knowing eyes at Arthur's blatant staring made it all worse. 

"Looks like you could use a cuppa," the man said with a wink. An actual wink. Arthur couldn't remember the last time an adult had winked at him. He was pretty sure it was Mr. Cobb, his fifth-grade teacher, right before he told the entire class that Arthur was the only one who aced the math exam thereby cementing his loner status for the next decade. Arthur scowled in response to the impossible man's cocky gesture. For some bizarre reason, this merely garnered him a smirk in retaliation and a, "be right back, luv," as if they were somehow already acquainted. As if he was simply going to get Arthur's usual. 

Arthur stood there blinking for a minute. Blinking and dripping in a ruined three-piece suit that his mother had given him as a going away present, and here he was wearing it in front of the most devastating man he'd ever met, who had the actual audacity to wink at him. If there was ever a time to look his most presentable and put-together, it would have been this moment, and instead of cutting a sharp figure in his finely tailored clothing, he merely cut a wet one. A soddened, sad lump of a man who's luck really was nonexistent. He fiddled with the die he kept in his pocket, stroking the smooth sides for comfort and noted the irony of such a keepsake in this situation. 

Arthur sat at the table in the far corner and accepted the 'cuppa' from the devastating man and promised himself to always return to this glorious land of hideous green and red striped button-down shirts because here existed the man Arthur's dreams were made of.

He took a sip of the drink the man had deposited and immediately grimaced but tried to turn it into a smile, knowing full well the man was watching. He lifted his cup in gratitude. The man smirked at him and went back to tending the bar. If Arthur stared at his backside a little bit longer than what would be deemed appropriate in polite society, it surely couldn't be his fault, because who actually wore pants like that? The last time Arthur had seen a pair of fucking pleated trousers in that cut and color, he was pretty sure it was on Patrick Swazey in Roadhouse. An 80's classic, but some things (like Jazzercise and Day-Glo and mother fucking Dockers) really should stay a memory and not a current fashion choice. 

Nevertheless, three times a week since that fateful day, Arthur walks in the door of the _Gladstone Roffie_ , sits down and accepts the cup of freshly brewed black tea from the man behind the bar with his crisp, gold (or grey, or purple, or fucking paisley) shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows and pinned there with actual leather garters that strain against the bulk of his biceps, with hardly a word. They have a routine and it breaks Arthur's heart how it never deviates but he'll be damned if he's going to be the one to cock it up because as long as the man continues to hand him terrible tea and give him that terribly beautiful smile, he'll happily sit at his corner table and pine on the inside for the rest of his days. Arthur wonders sometimes how the man could know the exact moment he'll walk through the door, the bell chiming merrily, signaling his pathetic entrance. It's uncanny really, and he would give it a lot more thought if he wasn't so distracted by his want to rip off those damn garters his fucking teeth - the sheer improbability of that ever actually occurring, be damned. 

 _God, I fucking hate tea_ , he thinks as he sips the too-hot liquid, and feels it burn down his throat as he casts a glance to the man at the bar. He's smiling at a customer while shining a glass and he's just . . . devastating. It isn't fair. His hair is just on the wrong side of greasy, and his teeth are crooked and his scruff is blatant and Arthur wonders what kind of hygiene regiment he man actually employs on a daily basis because from here it looks questionable, and all of these factors should not add up to devastating and yet . . . Arthur punches his thigh under the table. He fights the urge to bite something. Mostly that garter on the man's left bicep. It's obnoxious and deserves to be taught a lesson. 

At that moment when Arthur is sure he's finally tipped over into madness, a few of his classmate's filter into the cafe, shuffling in out of the cold and ordering espresso and cups of earl grey, all of them bemoaning their courses and wishing for something stronger. Arthur gulps down his tepid tea and runs a hand through his impossible hair. The humidity in this god-forsaken country makes keeping his hair slicked back into its normal, controlled state a pure fantasy. By noon every day, it's a riot of flyaway black waves that he has to constantly push back off his forehead. He hates it almost as much as he hates his tea. He winces as he finishes the last sip. 

"Bad brew?" one of his mates, Yusuf asks. 

"Hmm?" 

"You look rather like you're in pain, there." 

"Oh, no. Just . . . it's too strong for my pathetic American sensibilities." 

Yusuf just stares at him with infinite patience, like a well-trained dog waiting for its supper. 

"Fine, I hate tea." 

"And yet?" Yusuf raises an eyebrow and glances at the empty cup in front of Arthur. 

"Shut up." 

With a laugh, Yusuf nods and then turns towards the bar to see who's manning the place today. Seemingly satisfied with what he finds, he turns back and smirks at Arthur across the table. Arthur feels his stomach drop a little and an immediate sense of regret settles over him. When he'd told Yusuf about this local spot he hadn't counted on the man knowing the establishment. An urge to shove him back out the door quickly overtakes him. 

"What?" he asks, his voice tense. 

Yusuf's smirk turns childlike with its joy. "Enjoying the view, are we?" 

Ariadne perks up from peering at her phone. "View?" 

"It looks like Arthur fancies Eames." 

"Who's Eames," she asks, confusedly looking around. Ariadne, unlike Yusuf, had not been here previously. 

"The barman." 

Ariadne's face turns to the bar, takes in the man standing there with his biceps and his ridiculous smile and that damn glass that he's still fucking shining and Arthur just wants to die because, in the next moment, she's turning towards him smiling like a proud mother. Arthur almost gives in and bangs his head on the table. He does manage to control himself but it's a near thing. 

"No," he snaps, seeing Ariadne's eyes light up the next second with a look of pure inspiration that is downright horrifying to Arthur. 

She balks at him. "I didn't say anything!"

"And you're not going to. No. Just . . . no." He stands from the table, and heads for the bathroom . . . loo. Whatever. 

Arthur quickly finds the nearest place to have a nice, little panic attack, which is a wooden telephone booth built into the back hallway of the cafe. He shuts the bifold door, sits down on the wooden seat, places his head between his knees, and tries to remember how to properly breathe. 

A knock sounds a moment later and he's jumping, hitting his head on the shelf that holds the phone and an ancient looking phone book, and shouting, "Fuck!"

Muffled laughter drifts through the warbled glass and he looks up to see the man (whose apparently called Eames) standing there, one hand over his mouth, doing a terrible job of hiding his mirth at Arthur's expense. He holds his hands up in mock surrender at Arthur's glare and shakes his head slightly, "sorry, just . . . " he gestures to open the door and Arthur, who is now too busy to panic, thanks to the rapidly swelling bump on the back of his head, shoves open the door. 

"What?" 

"You alright?" 

"Really?" 

The man, Eames, _whatever_ , cocks his head in an endearing gesture that Arthur wants to scream at because nothing is fair when it comes to this man. Arthur rolls his eyes and stands, trying to hold onto his anger because being embarrassed, bruised and interrupted in the middle of a perfectly good downward spiral does not leave him feeling anything but furious. 

"You really knocked on the door to ask me if I was alright?" He snaps. 

Eames shakes his head. "Well, no. I rather fancied knocking on the door and joining you. I didn't realize you were throwing yourself a tantrum. Should I come back after you've sat here and thought long and hard about how naughty you've been?" 

Arthur rubs his head and blinks. He's pretty sure he's concussed and/or probably dreaming. 

"Excuse me?" 

With a put-upon sigh, Eames steps forward, immediately taking up all the air in the small confined space of the phone booth and with it, all of Arthur's ability to speak, or think for that matter. He presses his back up against the wall behind him and braces a hand on the handle of the receiver, hoping the cold metal will keep him grounded. The door snicks shut behind them and Arthur can't decide if he's going to be murdered in the next second or very forcefully come on to - it's a fifty-fifty split either way. Both hold possible positive outcomes, one would put him out of his pining misery and the other would . . . well, put him out of his pining misery. 

"Do you realize how many cups of tea I've brewed you, hoping one day you'd tell me to stop?" 

"Why would I tell you to stop?" 

Eames smiles, it's indulgent and a little bit dangerous and Arthur can't handle being this close to this man, who smells entirely too good considering Arthur's earlier, rather judgemental, assessments. Suddenly, there's a hand in his hair, fiddling with a flyaway curl, and Arthur closes his eyes, cursing the damned English weather in springtime. 

"You hair is a menace, darling." 

Arthur's eyes snap open. "What?" 

"It's a menace. A glorious, wreck of black curls that I'm rather fond of. Were you really never going to tell me that you hated tea?" 

"No." 

"Why the hell not?" 

"How is this conversation even happening right now?" Arthur really wants to know if he's dreaming. 

"It's happening because I was carefully listening to what your mates had to say when they walked in here and they provided me with two very important bits of information." 

"And those were?" 

Arthur didn't think it possible but Eames moves closer, his mouth drifting across the shell of Arthur's ear. "That you fancy me, and that you fucking hate tea." With that, Eames bites down on the lobe and sucks it into his mouth, and Arthur can't help but keen and melt down into the embrace of Eames' body. It's undignified, it's depraved, it's dirty and wrong and all kinds of things that his mother would clutch her pearls over but he really can't be bothered at that moment, and arches into that damn mouth and grips tight to Eames' arms, his fingers finding purchase around those cursed garters. 

"Fuck," Arthur breathes. 

"Mmmm," Eames hums, sending shivers through every nerve ending in Arthur's body, and it really isn't fair that such a small sound should cause such a blatantly large reaction. "Let's at least have dinner first. Perhaps you can tell me your name?"  

"Arthur."

Eames hums again and Arthur's eyes roll to the back of his head. "Just promise me one thing."

"Anything, darling."

"Please. No more fucking tea," he growls before he fists his hands into Eames' hair and pulls him in for a proper kiss. 

The two of them don't leave the phone booth for quite a while. 

-Fin- 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. I have nothing against tea. I love tea. I drink it daily. I really don't know what Arthur's problem is . . . perhaps it'll resolve itself now that he's snagged himself an Eames?


	6. It does not do to dwell on dreams - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inception AU in the Harry Potter-verse. Where Arthur is a student at Hogwarts and spends too much time in front of the mirror of Erised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help myself lately. I love this fandom. I love this ship. #Dreamhusbands, all the way. I don't think this fandom even EXISTS still, but I love it so, and I wanted to meld it with one of my other loves: HP. 
> 
> Enjoy!

When Arthur was eleven he received a curious letter that forever altered the shape of his reality.

Two months later, he left the lemon-yellow sunshine and foaming surf of California behind for the chilling mists and wild craigs of the Scottish Highlands to attend a special school for children just like him. He hadn't known he was anything special until that letter, written in glowing green ink showed up at his door, telling him of a place called Hogwarts and the world of magic. It was a world filled with endless unknowns but had offered him a chance to explore the land of his father's heritage, which he was all too eager to experience. He soaked in every little detail like a thirsty sponge under a leaking tap. 

At the age of fifteen, while strolling the fifth-floor corridor of Hogwarts, his now too-short robes billowing behind him, he noticed a door materialize out of what was only a granite wall not seconds before. He frowned, perplexed at this new eccentricity the castle was exposing him to as if it were allowing him in on a long-kept secret. He darted a glance up and down the hall, but no other students were to be found so he stepped forward and pressed his hand onto the ornately carved door, wondering if it would grant him entry. With a creak and a hiss of stale air, the door gave under his palm and he found himself in a room unlike any other he'd ever seen. 

Many times in the coming weeks, months, years, Arthur would slip away to the fifth floor, to his secret room, relishing the quiet, the calm, the constant steady hum of soothing atmosphere that happily embraced him every time he stepped through its doors. The room changed to his needs. Sometimes, it was outfitted with a squishy chair and a roaring fire, allowing him the perfect place to read for hours and finish his Potions essay without any other curious students prying over his parchments. Other times, the room was nothing but a series of vast floor to ceiling windows, showing him the sunny shores of the California coast, the roaring waves of Big Sur crashing in celebration, as if they were welcoming him home. He grew fond of the room, of its eagerness to please him, and of its tireless nature to do so. 

On the first day of his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, he pushed through the doors to the room, a goofy smiled plastered over his still boyish face, ready to greet his old friend, only to find the room dark and empty. He stepped lightly on the flagstones, worried he'd upset the room somehow, perhaps with his absence, but then noticed a mirror sitting sentinel in the far corner. Curious, he approached, walking slowly towards his own reflection, but as he came closer, he realized that he was not the only one reflected in mirror's glass. He turned quickly to see the boy who had been standing next to him only moments before, but he was alone in the room. The crunch of his shoes and swish of his robes echoing off the flagstones back to him.

Turning 'round, he took a moment to study his strange new, companion who stood so confidently next to him. His hair was longer than Arthur's but slicked back against his head, with one strong arm slung haphazardly over Arthur's much slimmer shoulders, a cocksure gesture that spoke of an easy familiarity between them. The boy smirked at Arthur, running his tongue over his full lips and bending down to whisper something into Arthur's ear before Arthur shoved him and he fell to the floor, laughing. The Arthur in the mirror blushed at whatever the cocky boy had said, but it was clear that he wasn't truly angry with him. The boy remained on the floor until his laughter died down to a humorous chuckle, crossing his legs in front of him and resting back on his elbows only to look up at Arthur with nothing short of wonder in his eyes. Eyes that were singularly focused on him: Arthur. No one had ever looked at him like that in his life. The boy's gaze was so intent that Arthur blinked in astonishment and almost looked away, fearing that he was intruding on an intimate moment. But, how could he be intruding? It was Arthur the boy was mooning at! Arthur, with his lanky limbs and boyish dimples and flyaway black hair that never stayed tamed, no matter how many charms he used. Arthur, who spent more time studying ancient runes and potions ingredients than actually conversing with his fellow classmates. 

Arthur sat down hard on the floor, his reflection doing the same. It brought him closer to the boy's attentions and watched with rapt fascination as the boy reached a hand out to tuck an errant curl behind Arthur's ear. He tried to frown at the boy's overt gestures but saw a smirk play at the corner of his mouth, just the same. A moment later, the boy reared up to tackle Arthur to the floor, rolling and tossing him about as if he were a rag doll, but they were smiling, laughing with joy on their faces. It was suddenly very hard for Arthur to swallow, his throat felt so tight. 

Were they _together_? 

Was this his future? A parallel world? A dreamscape he'd created out of fantasy? He looked away from the mirror, blinking hard at the emotion stinging the corner of his eyes. He scanned the room for answers but was only offered the sudden roaring flame of a fire in a hearth that hadn't been there a moment prior and the feel of a soft cushion that now laid beneath his crossed legs, no doubt saving him from the chill of the flagstones. He smiled at the flames, so grateful to this room for all that it had given him over the years. The solace, the peace, the retreat from the demands of learning how to be a new person in a new world. And yet, now, the room left questioning his reality. 

He turned his face back to the happy boys in the mirror, to the image of himself so carefree, his heart felt heavy with the melancholy of a missed memory he'd never actually experience. How was this all possible? To feel envious and heartbroken over his own reflection? 

He couldn't stay here, watching such a private moment between these two boys, even if one appeared to be himself. He couldn't stand to see such joy on his own face, knowing he'd never actually smiled that broadly in his entire life. Coming clumsily to his feet and tripping over the cushion in his haste, he fled the room, leaving the roaring fire and that damnable boy with his beautiful eyes and his too-sure grin behind. 

Arthur ran and promised himself never to come back. 

* * *

 

He lasted three days. 

Three pathetic days of staying away were all he could manage before he was shuffling back to his favorite corridor in the castle and looking up at the blank wall with nothing short of pleading in his eyes. The room did not disappoint, and offered itself to Arthur, its doors yawning open with a welcoming gust of warm air. He stepped through to the version of the room just as it had been on his first day of term: the fire in the hearth, the cushion on the floor and the mirror in the corner. He hesitated for only a second before his feet were carrying him too quickly to stand before it, and sitting down even faster in hopes to see the boy again. 

The mirror only reflected Arthur, eager in his crossed-legged pose, his face flushed and yearning. He craned his neck trying to see beyond himself but couldn't make out anything except dull grey mist. 

"Shit," he cursed, his eyes falling to his hands, his fingers worrying at the pleated edge of his trousers. Where was that damn boy? 

A knock sounded, hollow and tinny before him and Arthur's head shot up to see the boy in the mirror staring back at him. Arthur's own reflection was gone, and only the boy remained. He was seated on the floor, just like Arthur,  his legs crossed beneath him, just like Arthur, and in the background, he could see the reflection of flames coming from the same hearth as Arthur's, and yet, this was not a reflection. For the first time, Arthur realized the boy wore a school uniform, not unlike is own but wholly different. They were soft blue, as opposed to black, and on his chest, he saw a crest with the letter B emblazoned across the soft, sewn filagree. The blue of his robes matched the deep blue of his eyes and Arthur swallowed realizing that his singular gaze was once again focused solely on him, though Arthur had been too busy taking in the oddity of his clothing to notice.  

The boy's brow creased with concern, and knocked again, looking to Arthur with a multitude of unanswered questions in his keen eyes. Arthur shrugged awkwardly and raised a pale hand in a small wave, wondering if he'd perhaps somehow lost his mind. Perhaps this had all been a dream and soon he'll wake up in his sunny bedroom back in California? Arthur hoped desperately for that not to be the case and pressed his hand to the cold glass of the mirror, his need to reach out to the boy immediate and unexcepted. The boy's face, having seen Arthur's gesture, broke out into a heart-stopping smile, exposing crooked teeth that Arthur couldn't help but find endearing. He felt his lips pull back unintentionally, forming a self-conscious smirk all on their own. He was blushing, he knew it, and he hated himself for it. The boy, however, seemed to enjoy Arthur's smiles for he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the glass and closed his eyes, his smile slipping to something sadder, almost lonely, yet still content. Arthur bent and matched his pose, wanting to comfort this beautiful figment. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the boy's hand came up to mirror Arthur's, their palms touching through the cool pane separating them. 

This was bizarre, Arthur thought. 

"Who are you?" He breathed, watching his words fog the glass. 

The boy jerked back at the question, his eyes wide. "You spoke. You never speak. You can't." His voice sounded as if it was being filtered through water, his accent rich with a French lilt. 

Arthur shook his head in utter disbelief. "You're real?" 

The boy smirked. "Last I checked, yes. You're not real, though." 

Arthur frowned. "What do you mean?" Of course he was real. 

"I made you up in a dream," the boy said with the saddest smile Arthur had ever seen. 

"No, you didn't." 

The boy cocked his head to the side, looking like a curious dog and Arthur grinned at him. This was madness, but such was the way in a world filled with magic.

"Tell me your name," Arthur asked, eagerly shifting closer to the glass. His knees bumped the mirror, matching the boy's on the other side. 

"Eames." 

Warmth flooded Arthur's belly at that single word. The boy had a name. He was real, and had a name! But how was this possible? 

"I'm Arthur," he said, his hands splaying on the glass once more. Eames mirrored the gesture, he eyes so intent on Arthur they pooled dark before him. 

They sat there like that, grinning at each other for what felt like hours, giddy with the sense of discovery and longing and want all wrapped up into one hormonal teenage package. Arthur wanted to ask Eames questions, where he was from, what the B on his uniform meant, if he was a wizard like Arthur, why he spoke such perfect English but clearly had a French accent . . . he was filled with the want for knowledge about the boy. And yet, neither of them spoke. Instead, they sat and watched each other, drinking each other in and learning things that shared words could never tell. 

Arthur didn't know how long he'd sat on that cold floor but when he roused to consciousness, his legs numb from being curled beneath him for so long, he lifted his head to find the mirror gone. He jerked back, suddenly frantic, his eyes scanned the room for the mirror, searching for the image of Eames somewhere around him. 

He was utterly alone. 

"No! No, no no no . . . " he struggled to his feet and then promptly fell, his legs useless. He scrambled for his wand and spelled a quick pick-me-up charm over his limbs, hoping the same trick he used to wake himself up on a too-cold, too-groggy morning would work to revive the blood flow to his poor legs. After a few moments, the charm took effect and he struggled to a vertical position with a small sense of triumph. 

When he could manage to successfully place one foot in front of the other, he escaped the room, noting the dark and quiet of the castle around him. It was well past curfew, but Arthur was beyond caring about Filtch and that stupid cat of his. He needed to get to the Ravenclaw dorms, he needed to find Ariadne. 

* * *

 

"Are you insane?" Ariadne spat as she wrapped a dressing gown tightly around her middle, the grumblings of her fellow roommates floating out from the darkness behind her. She shut the door to her room and glared at Arthur. "What could possibly be so important that you had to pound down my door  _right now_?" 

Arthur's mouth opened to explain and then promptly shut, his throat closing in on him along with his pride. He had no clue how to explain any of what had just happened to him over the past several hours, nor three days before that, nor two years before that. He was at a loss, and yet, he knew without a doubt that if anyone could help him, it'd be Ariadne, so why on earth could he simply not say it? 

"There's a boy," he spat out, his voice sounding small and rough from disuse. 

Ariadne frowned at him. "Okay." She walked him over to one of the large leather chairs in front of a cold hearth, spelled it to life with a flick of her wand, and sat him down like a doting mother hen. "Arthur, are you telling me that you're having a sexual identity crisis at three in the morning and you needed me for . . . support?" Her eyes were understanding and filled with only kindness. Arthur shook his head furiously at her and tried to swallow down his frustrations. 

"No. I'm not. Well, maybe. But that's not important. There's this room. It appears whenever I go to the fifth-floor cor-- oh, fuck it. I'll just take you there." He stood and wrenched Ariadne out of her chair, much to her immediate protest. 

"Arthur, wait! We can't just go there right now!" 

"No, but we have to! Eames is gone. I can't-- he's real and I just -- I have to find him."

Ariadne placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder, which despite understanding the warmth of the gesture, made him furious. 

"Who's Eames." 

"The boy!" 

"Okay. What does this have to do with a room on the fifth floor?"

Arthur tugged hard on his hair, his eyes stinging with emotion. He'd never been very good at expressing himself. He much-preferred silence to speech. 

"I . . . I . . . I don't really know. But there's this room. On the fifth floor. As far as I know, I'm the only one who knows about it but I'll show you. In the room, there's a mirror and in the mirror there's Eames." It was as simple as Arthur could put it, even though it sounded profoundly idiotic once he'd said it out loud. 

Ariadne looked even more concerned and confused than two minutes prior but nodded just the same. "Okay. And he's . . . stuck in the mirror?" 

"No. Yes? I don't know! But . . . he's important. To me. And I was sitting in front of the mirror and fell asleep and when I woke up the mirror was gone, and I just . . ." Arthur rubbed hard at his chest, finding it difficult to breathe. He didn't understand this terrifying need he felt for a boy he'd only met twice and conversed with once, but despite not knowing him at all, he was undoubtedly certain that he very much needed him in his life and the fact that he suddenly wasn't sitting right in front of him any more _hurt_. 

Arthur spent the next half an hour talking way more than ever cared to while explaining all about the room to Ariadne, and how at the beginning of this term it had suddenly become stagnant, only displaying the mirror to him and nothing else. Ariadne decided that what he must have discovered was the Mirror of Erised, a mirror that shows the viewer their truest desires, but that didn't explain to either of them how he could converse with Eames, someone he didn't know existed until a few days ago (and if he didn't know he existed how could he _desire_ him?) or feel the heat of Eames' hand through the glass on the other side. Arthur clung to that thought, his hand flexing at his side, the phantom warmth still tingling there from Eames' large, broad palm splayed over Arthur's more delicate fingers. 

"It has to be real, Ariadne." 

And despite all of her careful thought processes and need for fact and logic to reign supreme in her mind, she agreed with him, Eames must be real. 

"We'll find him, Arthur. We will." She grasped his hand in hers, squeezing gently with a sad smile tugging at her lips. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed, signaling the start of a new hour, and Ariadne yawned as if on cue. 

"We need to sleep." 

"I can't." 

"You have to, Arthur. We need sleep. I promise you, I'll help you, but first, we need sleep." 

With reluctance Arthur crawled into bed, his shoulders tense and his face hurting from his constant scowl of frustration. He starred hard up at the drapes of his fourposter bed, tracing the patterns of the dreary damask with his eyes until his lids grew heavy with unwanted fatigue, and before he knew it, he'd slipped away into the darkness of his dreams. 

* * *

 

 _Arthur. Arthur._  

Someone was murmuring his name softly in his ear, tickling him and making him shiver all at once. He squirmed in his sleep, moving closer to the sound and the warmth it provided. He felt cocooned in his blankets, which were heavy with extra weight, as if he was being held by them, wrapped in their embrace. 

_Trouve-moi, Arthur. Trouve-moi._

Arthur shot awake a moment later, his eyes wide with shock. He looked around him, feeling a sense of lingering heat where there was now only chill and rubbed at his ear where warm breath had only moments before ghosted past his skin. 

"Holy shit." 

His heart was pounding and sweat prickled at his forehead. He shoved at the duvet, feeling overheated and wrung out and in desperate need of a cold drink. He filled the empty glass on his nightstand with a flick of his wand and gulped down the cool water, his hand shaking and slipping against the glass. 

What the hell was happening to him? 

Staggering to the bathroom on trembling legs, he splashed cold water over his face and rubbed a wet cloth over the back of his neck, looking at his haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror. It showed only his own distraught face. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to relive the sound of Eames' voice echoing in his dreams. 

 _Trouve-moi,_ he'd said.

 _Come find me._  

-TBC-

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this was meant to be a cute drabble! A ficlet at most! Not a damn BEGINNING to an actual full blown one shot! Clearly, there was more story here than I had originally anticipated. My want to see Arthur in Hogwarts robes just snowballed out of control. Eames being French? That came outta nowhere. (I mean, I love it, don't get me wrong, but what?) This entire thing came out of nowhere. I just thought, 'oh cute, the mirror showing Arthur how much he wants Eames, let me write this!' And 3k words later, I have this monster on my hands. 
> 
> Anywho, hope you enjoyed that. I hope to write the conclusion sometime this week.


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